


Spike Down, Ace Up

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, Derek Hale & Erica Reyes Friendship, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Minor Injuries, Puns & Word Play, Volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hale family has a long-standing spot in the Beacon Hills’ Sports & Social Club volleyball league—a team Derek has surreptitiously avoided being on for <i>years</i>, until now. But it’s not all that bad. (And Stiles Stilinski has nothing to do with it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spike Down, Ace Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Scar, because she is awesome.

Derek is beginning to suspect that he was a serial killer in his past life and that karma decided that today would be the day he repents for it. Crazy theory, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense. 

It all started first thing in the morning, when he couldn’t find any toothpaste in the house. None. Despite the fact that he _knew_ he bought a family pack from Costco last month. So he gargled and scrubbed his teeth with mouthwash. Like a caveman. A caveman raised by wolves. 

Then he discovered that the laundry he _thought_ he put into the dryer the night before was still very much wet, which led to him wearing a very, very unflattering shirt-and-tie combo. A combo Erica very uncharacteristically did _not_ comment on, bless her (but mostly Boyd’s good influence), when he finally made it to the office… thirty-three minutes late exactly because some jackass ran out of gas. Right in front of his driveway.

Then the Deucalion report deleted itself somehow, though Derek was thoroughly convinced it was Jackson’s doing. It took Danny from IT two hours and a bribe of a dozen doughnuts for him to conjure it up from magical data land… only for Derek to realize that all of the changes he slaved over for three days ( _three!_ ) were gone, and, apparently, non-recoverable, _sorry_.

By that point, he stopped tallying the universe’s transgressions against him and started scowling. Only Erica crossed the threshold of his office, but even she was repulsed by his growled out answers and glares. No mean feat, as she’s been dealing with him and his sour moods since college.

All he wants to do now is go home after work and pour himself a stiff drink. Maybe stare into his fireplace and brood just a little bit. But he can’t do neither… because he has volleyball tonight. 

He shakes his fist at the ceiling. “ _Laura_ ,” he mutters darkly. “ _Cora_.”

He never wanted in on the ol’ Hale family volleyball tradition, but he was strong-armed into Beacon Hills’ Sports & Social Club by his sisters when Uncle Peter bailed out at the last minute. Derek is a sucker when it comes to his sisters, despite their crocodile tears and manipulative ways. He always caves to their whims, eventually, and they both know it (and abuse it, often).

They’re lucky Derek loved them so, because volleyball night was torture.

The game itself is okay. Derek’s athletic, his leftover reflexes from basketball allowing him to be a decent player. It’s the social aspect of the game he dislikes. 

Every Wednesday night, he has to watch Stiles Stilinski flail around on the grass courts, fist bumping everyone in sight, screaming and jumping when he turns a good play. The guy is loud, never stops talking, cheats when the referee isn’t paying attention, and wears a stupid backwards baseball cap like it’s his job.

Derek hates him.

(Which—okay, yeah, that is a lie. Derek has it _bad_.)

 

\--

 

“Hey, Derek!”

Derek comes up too quickly and whacks the back of his head on his trunk door. He breathes deeply through his nose for a few seconds, willing the pain away. “What do you want, Stiles?” he grumbles.

Stiles is standing in the middle of the parking lot, his team’s t-shirt slung over his shoulder. He waves, a sympathetic grimace pulling at his mouth. “Just wanted to say hi. So. _Hi_. Your head okay?”

“I’ll live,” he says. 

“Awesome! I mean, _good._ I need you to be in top form tonight. Don’t wanna think we won because I gave you a head injury.”

Derek smirks. “You should be more worried about my mom.”

“Oh, totally. She has a mean spike.” Stiles mimes a spiking motion, though it looks more like a bastardized karate chop than anything else. “Oh, hey, Scott’s waving me over. I’ll see you out there. Good luck.” 

“You, too.” Derek watches Stiles go with a sigh.

Cora stomps over a second later and elbows him right in the ribs. “You two are _so_ gross,” she says. “Come on, let’s do warm-ups.”

 

\--

 

The thing about wishing someone _good luck_ is that sometimes it backfires. Epically.

Derek sees the ball coming over the net. He jumps, arm striking out on instinct. The ball connects with his wrist perfectly and rockets back over the net uncontested. He has a second to gloat his awesome play before he stumbles the landing, falls to his knees, and face-plants. Right into Stiles’s crotch. 

Both teams, referee included, stop mid-play, as if a real-life record scratch blared from the heavens. Someone catcalls, and blood rushes so quickly to Derek’s head that it feels like he’s hearing it through water. 

He scrambles backwards and up onto his feet. “Sorry,” he spits out, mortified. _Oh god,_ he thinks. His face brushed up on Stiles’s _penis_. 

“Uh, I usually take a guy out a few times before he does that,” Stiles says lightly. He has a light blush on his cheeks, too. “It’s—“

Before Stiles can finish this sentence, stinging pain bursts behind Derek’s ear. The next thing he remembers is staring at the grass, and then—nothing.

 

\--

 

“I didn’t think you could get concussed from a volleyball.”

If he possessed the ability to reach through phones, Derek would have strangled his so-called best friend a long time ago. “Well, you can. And now I’m off until I’m fully ‘recovered’. Did you really have to call 9-1-1?” 

“Derek, sweetie,” she says, “you threw up. All over Stiles.”

_Stiles._ The ridiculously hot guy whose penis he accidentally nuzzled. 

Derek groans. A noise that doesn’t help his headache, but he can’t help it. He can’t remember much past the terrible, splitting pain of getting whacked by a volleyball, and the foul retching noises he made as he emptied his lunch all over Stiles’s shoes. _Horrifyingly embarrassed_ is a very, very mild way of describing how he feels about the situation.

“You should call him,” Erica says slyly. “He totally went macho-tender over you.” 

“Macho-tender?” he growls. “Do you hear yourself?”

“It’s a valid description, and he _so_ was.” 

“He was being a concerned citizen is what he was. And do we even know if he’s interested? C’mon.”

“Well, there’s all that pink?”

“His team’s _t-shirt_ is pink. And good job stereotyping.”

“I’m a monster, I know,” she sighs, the one that screams ‘I’m 100% done with you’. “Oh, and before I forget: congrats, you’re Internet famous!”

He blanches. “Oh God. My catalogue photos?”

“The one with the husky puppy? Ha, I wish. I was videotaping the game, and captured you falling face-first onto Stiles’s peen. I uploaded it to the beer league website… aaaand it kind of blew up.” 

“What do you mean, ‘blew up’?” 

“There are gifs. A youtube remix. A whole Tumblr blog dedicated to it, actually.” She doesn’t sound an ounce apologetic. “Well, gotta run! Bye!” 

Derek waits a few hours (alright, a few minutes) before caving to curiosity and googling “volleyball faceplant penis”. It doesn’t take long to find Erica’s video amid the very specific porn and Top Gun screenshots. 

And it isn’t _that_ bad, truth be told. Most of the gifs look like they evolved into cartoon characters’ faces pasted over his and Stiles’s heads. Of all the embarrassing videos and photoshoots he did (god, the _moleskin jacket_ ), a shot of him doing a pretty athletic maneuver and then accidentally molesting someone was very _meh_.

Derek navigates to the youtube remix next, which already pulled in over 120,000 views. From there, he goes to the league website. He dicks around a little, checks his team’s standings, and then finally admits that he ‘s obviously, and embarrassingly, stalling for time.

No one will know if he checks out Stiles’s roster, right? He clicks on the team slyly named “Face Down, Ace Up”, rubbing his hands together guiltily as the page loads.

The beer league has all sorts of teams in varying levels: extremely terrible, to passable, to damn near Olympic, to everything in-between. His family team, the Hale Storms, were okay at best, but his mother maintains that it’s a good way to get out of the house, get some exercise, and drink discounted beer.

But it looks like Stiles’ team took the game a little more seriously than most, as they’re currently top dog.

Derek sighs. It isn’t dreamy. At all. Okay?

 

\--

 

He spends the next couple of days at home, flicking through TV channels that were finally worth the money he pays each month for them, and begging Erica to give him updates about work. It’s sad, but the doctor’s order to stay home make him feel like more of a recluse than usual.

He’s fixing himself a sandwich for lunch, absently following along with the flimsy plot of the Lifetime movie he’s watching, when he hears his text message alert ping.

**_Hey, this is Stiles from volleyball. How are you? I got your # from Erica btw. Hope that’s cool_ ** _._

“Erica, you god damn enabler!” he growls, then quickly types back: **_hi. i’m fine. off work for a week b/c head trauma. thx for that_** _._ He hits send before he can fully acknowledge his piss-poor attempt at flirting and back out.

His phone lights up from a call a second later. It’s Stiles’s number, and he picks it up with a bemused, “Hello?”

“Hi. Normally I would text like a regular human being, but I kinda feel responsible for any brain damage you might’ve received and thought a personal call might be in order.”

Derek blinks and follows along the only thread that makes sense. “Did you tell Scott to aim at me?”

Stiles splutters. “What? _What_? No!”

“Maybe you ordered a hit?”

“Are you—? Why would I—?” He paused. “Are you trying to use puns to mess with me right now? Because those are terrible.”

Derek smiles. “Can’t say I’m sorry.” 

“You should be. They were really bad. I can send you a website link for inspiration, if you want.”

“I’m good,” he says. “But, what I meant was—it’s not your fault I got hit.” 

“No, but I should’ve seen the ball coming.”

The image of Stiles shoving him gallantly out of the way flashes in his mind.  “If you insist on taking the blame… but it’s _fine_. Really.”

“Is it fine enough that you’ll let me take you to dinner? As an apology?”

Derek’s smile slips. There’s no way Stiles is asking him out on a date. Because that would mean Erica was right, and he doesn’t want to deal with her gloating when she inevitably finds out about it. “Tonight?”

“If you’re free?” 

He carefully weighs his options. _Dinner with a guy I’ve been crushing on for months versus a Honey Boo Boo marathon. Dinner with Stiles; deal with Erica’s maniacal laughter. Hmm._

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

 

-

 

They decide to meet downtown for fish tacos and beer. Though Derek’s pretty sure driving with a concussion, however mild it is, is a bad idea, he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with Stiles picking him up (though the guy insisted). Pick-ups were too close in association with the word ‘date’.

He finds parking a few minutes before seven, and debates on the merits of being punctual versus casually late. Manners win out in the end, however, and he ends up standing underneath the restaurant marquee right as his watch ticks onto the hour. A few minutes pass by Stiles-free, Derek’s nerves getting the better of him, but all his worries melt away when he catches sight of Stiles jogging lightly up the sidewalk. 

He swallows thickly—hell, almost swallows his tongue. Stiles is dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, wet hair curling up around his forehead, and he looks _good_.

Stiles greets him with a bright smile. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was nuts.”

They blow through the typical getting-to-know-you conversation by the time they finish the food, topics bouncing around from school to jobs to Derek’s embarrassing attempt at catalogue modeling. There must be something in the sauce, too, because Derek flips to the ‘portfolio’ on his phone and gives Stiles free rein to look.

It should be awkward—two guys whose only acquaintance is an embarrassing encounter during volleyball, but it isn’t

Stiles twists the phone around to show Derek which picture he’s on, and wipes away a stray tear. “Is that a puppy?”

Derek rolls his eyes. Under normal circumstances, he would be absolutely mortified to have human eyes looking at the shots his short-lived manager swore would be his ticket, but—there’s just something about Stiles that makes him laugh along, too.

They end up talking well into the evening, ordering a steady flow of beers and another round of tacos when Stiles’s stomach growls loud enough for the table over to eyeball them. It’s easy, talking to Stiles, and when they finally stumble out the front door and into the crisp evening air, Derek’s not nearly surprised enough at how disappointed he is to see the end of the night. 

Stiles rocks onto the balls of his feet and hooks his thumbs into his pockets. “You think I made up for the concussion?”

“More than. This was—nice.” He coughs. “You really didn’t have to pay for me.”

Stiles smiles, tiny dimples digging in deep and doing terrible things to Derek. “I asked you to come out, so. Fair’s fair.” His expression melts to something more serious, more intense. “Is it weird that I don’t want the night to end?”

Derek clears his throat again. “Well, it _is_ a little early for a Friday night.”

“Come home with me then.” Stiles says it bluntly, and all the pieces to the puzzle Derek has been studiously avoiding so as to avoid further embarrassment at being wrong fly off the table.

“Oh, oh fuck, I’m not usually so forward, um,” Stiles stammers, and Derek realizes he actually never answered the question, has probably been standing, gaping, for a while now.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, brain back on track, “this was a date all along.”

Stiles just stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Um, yes? I thought I’d been dropping hints all night… and when you showed me your modeling pictures… I mean—they’re kind of obscene, dude, like what was up with those _pants_ —”

Derek has to rock forward to kiss Stiles because of the distance between them. He’s sure they look ridiculous leaning into each other, but he does it, and it’s so, so worth it. Stiles catches on quick, hands coming up to cup Derek’s face and neck, thumb stroking gently against his cheek. They pull away at the same time, twin smiles on their faces.

“So is that a yes or a no?” Stiles asks. 

And Derek’s answer is the easiest one he’s made all year.

(Thank god for volleyball.)

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the [gif that inspired this](http://i.imgur.com/6YicxpQ.gif).
> 
> Derek's modeling photos are definitely Tyler Hoechlin's [shots over here](http://tyler-hoechlin.net/photos/thumbnails.php?album=295).
> 
> And, as always, come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://punkcorahale.tumblr.com)!


End file.
